


Full Count, Bases Loaded

by eeyore9990



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Baseball, Baseball Player Derek Hale, Baseball Player Stiles Stilinski, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Happy Derek Hale, Hugs, M/M, Pining Derek, Sterek Reverse Bang 2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-11-21 06:22:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11351664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eeyore9990/pseuds/eeyore9990
Summary: Playing in the minors, just one phone call away from having every dream come true, means Derek has no time for distractions, no time for fun.  He has to bring his A-game every day, during practice and game nights equally.  The coaches are always watching and heneedsthat next ringing phone to be the one calling him up to the majors.  He'll havefunwhen he's catching for the Mets.But then Stiles Stilinski gets picked up to pitch for the Las Vegas 51s and…Derek has never had so much fun getting distracted.





	Full Count, Bases Loaded

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zhyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zhyn/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Art for Full Count, Bases Loaded](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11344770) by [zhyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zhyn/pseuds/zhyn). 



> The [Las Vegas 51s](http://www.milb.com/index.jsp?sid=t400) are an actual farm team for the New York Mets. The road schedule depicted here is on their actual website in that order (though why on EARTH anyone would travel from Reno, NV to El Paso, TX and then UP to Tacoma, WA, I have no idea.) Also, they actually have tiny aliens on their hats and are actually named for Area 51.
> 
> Yeah, I thought it was completely awesome too.
> 
> Deepest thanks to [5inbinary](http://5inbinary.tumblr.com/)/[zhyn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/zhyn/pseuds/zhyn) for their adorable artwork that inspired this fic, which is — according to AO3 stats — my 200th Teen Wolf fic. Huzzah!
> 
> And thanks as well to [cobrilee](http://cobrilee.tumblr.com) for the lightning fast beta! You rock, bb!

Derek barely got his glove up in time to prevent Boyd's warm up toss from punching him right in his chest protector. Thankfully the heat of the day provided an excellent reason for reddened cheeks, but he could still feel the flush spread to the back of his neck at Boyd's judgmental stare. It wasn't really _his_ fault though; he'd been distracted by the guy striding across the field from the direction of the bullpen.

"Heads up," Derek called, tipping his chin in that direction and alerting Boyd, who cast a quick glance before turning and jogging back to his position at third base. Derek, still behind home plate, pulled down his face mask and dropped into a crouch, bouncing a little on his toes as he waited for the new guy to take the mound. 

The face mask gave him the opportunity to finish inspecting the new guy in private. He was built like most pitchers, really — tall and lanky — but his pale cheeks were already splotchy from the heat of the day and his mouth was wide with deep pink lips that Derek had no problem imagining stretching into a smile or… something else. His hair was dark and thick, tousled enough to make Derek think of running his fingers through it to mess it up more, and even from this distance, the front of his practice jersey was dented by two prominent nipples.

It was highly distracting.

Derek watched as the guy rolled his shoulders, warming up the lovely muscles there before taking his stance and looking toward where the coaches were lined up behind the fence. 

This part was easy enough, nothing Derek hadn't done a few hundred times before. They'd want to see everything in the kid's repertoire, but always started with a few warm-up pitches, then half a dozen fast balls, then they'd call for whatever the kid had on his resume. 

Derek lifted his glove and shifted forward just the slightest, waiting for the first pitch. When it came, though, it nearly set him on his ass. The kid had obviously forgot to ease his way into this.

Standing with a huff of breath, Derek jogged toward the mound, forgetting to lift his face mask until he was almost upon the new guy because with every step forward, the guy's beauty was more and more apparent. Sweet Jesus, the little uptilt of the guy's nose was the cutest damn thing Derek had ever seen.

He wanted to boop it.

Getting hold of himself, he slapped the ball into the guy's hand and muttered, "Calm down, rookie. Don't blow that shoulder on the first pitch. You're allowed to warm up before they start asking for the heat."

The guy ducked his head, a bit more red flooding into his cheeks as he nodded awkwardly, which made the sunglasses he was wearing slide down his nose enough for Derek to see the wide brown eyes behind them. Fucking _Bambi_ esque with nerves to spare, and the way they seemed to stare right into Derek's soul had his breath stuttering in his chest.

"Calm down," Derek said again, though this time directing it at himself more than the guy in front of him. 

Fucking the new pitcher on the mound before his first actual practice was frowned upon in professional sports, after all.

The kid scowled a little anyway, like he thought Derek was lecturing him or something, and just like that his chin was going up and back, his shoulders levering up as well. "Yeah, whatever, dude. I've got this. Just do your catcher thing, and I'll take care of the pitching."

Eyebrows lifting of their own accord at the snappishness in that voice, Derek couldn't help the way his eyes drifted down to the guy's cup-protected groin at the likely unintentional double entendre. Then he shrugged and turned away, jogging back to the plate with all his various pads bumping and shifting against him. 

Not the greatest first impression in the history of baseball, but honestly, not the worst Derek had inspired either. He wasn't great with the words of encouragement. Really, he wasn't known for being great with words _period_.

Fuck.

Shaking his head, Derek knocked his face mask back into place and hunkered down again, lifting his glove and signalling for the next pitch. 

This was gonna be a long practice.

—

Derek looked down at the room assignment in his hand, readjusting the strap of his luggage where it kept trying to slip off his shoulder. "Stilinski?" he muttered as he took in the name of his roommate for this road trip. The name didn't really sound familiar, but then there were several new guys, so it wasn't like he could know them _all_.

He heard the sound of voices before he even reached his door, which was more than a little irritating because all he wanted to do was stow his stuff and take a shower before getting intimate with his bed for the night. They'd been travelling on the buses for almost eight hours, and there was never enough room to properly stretch out and get comfortable.

With a sigh, he slid the keycard in the slot and pushed the door open to hear someone whooping in excitement on the other side. The amount of celebrating going on was enough to ensure that Derek's arrival went completely unnoticed, so he had a moment to get over his shock that his roommate — Stilinski, apparently — was none other than the hot new pitcher.

That… really shouldn't surprise him, honestly. After all, his luck had always been perfectly shitty.

Case in point, Stilinski was currently standing up and stripping out of his official uniform jersey, showing off his leanly muscled back as he turned to carefully hang it back up. Instinct had Derek sliding sideways into the darkened bathroom, not wanting to get caught lurking like a creep.

"Aliens are so cool," Derek heard, which had his eyebrows winging upward and he turned to the bathroom mirror, tilting it until he was able to get a clear picture of the outer room in it — the tiny closet had a full length mirrored door, and it was open just enough that the angles were perfect.

"Yeah," Stilinski said, scratching at the back of his head, then holding up one of their caps in front of an open laptop on the small hotel room desk. "I mean, I want to get called up like, tomorrow, but I can't deny that it's kinda badass to be playing for the team named after Area 51."

"Do you think they'll let you go there? Will you get to see the secret areas? Fly an alien spaceship like Will Smith?"

Stilinski tossed his head back and laughed, which allowed Derek a glimpse of the laptop's screen, where at least two other people were grinning. One was a guy about Stilinski's age, the other an older man who looked enough like Stilinski to let Derek feel somewhat certain in his prediction that this was Stilinski's father.

"Enough about little green men," the man said, breaking into Stilinski's happy sounds. "How are things going with the team? Any better than yesterday?"

Stilinski's laughter cut off abruptly and his shoulders sagged. "I dunno, Dad. Hale's—"

Derek jerked in his hiding place, almost knocking over the little body soap and hand cloth stacked up on the ledge of the tub.

"He's really good, but I think I kinda screwed up his opinion of me that first day." Stilinski shrugged his shoulders, but the two men on his computer started talking over each other, the connection garbling their raised voices as they tried to reassure him before his father won out.

"It can't be that bad, kid," the man said, and Derek wished he felt comfortable coming out of the bathroom to back that sentiment up. "After all, didn't you say you threw at least three fastballs that went over a hundred miles per hour?"

"Yeah, but…" Stilinski shrugged again. "Fastballs are a dime a dozen. All pitchers can do that. But my curveball is 'ugly'," he brought his hands up, long fingers curled into air quotes, before he was cut off by a stream of angry chatter from the younger guy on the computer.

Derek tuned that out, too busy feeling a bit sick at hearing his own words said in such a biting, sarcastic tone. And they were his words, nearly word for word, though he'd definitely not delivered them that way. 

As far as he remembered it, after Stilinski's first official practice pitches for the coaches, Derek had approached the mound again, impressed despite himself at the raw talent from this guy who looked like he'd stepped out of Derek's naughtiest fantasies. His fastballs had been whipped in with a precision and control that never wavered, but his _curve_ had been… Ugly. Derek stood by that description, especially as someone who wasn't just a catcher but also a _batter._ He sincerely hoped no other pitcher out there ever threw anything like that at him because he was certain he'd go down swinging every time.

The thing was, there was no way to tell by Stilinski's pitching style that he was throwing anything other than a fastball. And when he released, it _looked_ like one. But if a seasoned player tried to swing at it like it _was_ a fastball, they'd end up swinging far too soon and far too high. The only real problem, from a defensive perspective, was that the ball curved sharply down just before reaching the plate — and the strike zone. Never enough to drop _out_ of strike territory, but all it would take would be a tall player to just stand there and hold position and they'd probably be looking at a walk.

But still, it was the ugliest curve ball Derek had ever seen, and it was no fluke. The coaches had asked to see it again and again, all of them chattering in low, excited voices behind the fence while Derek became more and more convinced that the new pitcher was a damn _machine_. 

"What about the shortstop? He still giving you a hard time?"

Those questions knocked Derek out of his memories of that first practice and made him narrow his eyes dangerously, his eyebrows furrowing on his forehead.

"Whittemore?"

Yeah. That asshole.

Stilinski made a scoffing noise, which Derek desperately wanted to echo. "Eh, he's a pretty boy shortstop with an ego. Talk about a dime a dozen. I don't give a shit — sorry, Dad — about him or anything he has to say about me. If it gets too bad, I'll just place a call to HR and let them deal with it. No team can afford the negative publicity he'll end up bringing to the organization."

Derek found himself nodding, then winced. He really needed to figure out a way to officially get out of this bathroom and into the hotel room without making _himself_ into a person that Stilinski would call HR about. Preferably before Stilinski decided he needed to relieve himself. 

Crouching down, Derek duck-walked to the door of the bathroom, using the closet mirrors to watch Stilinski for any hint that he might turn around, but he seemed to be fully engaged in his Skype conversation. Derek scuttled to the door, bag clutched awkwardly under his arm, and reached up to the door handle, easing it down quietly but quickly and then yanking it open and swinging his body around to the other side and letting his bag hit the jamb a little loudly. 

Standing, he peeked his head and shoulders around the door to see that Stilinski was startling at the desk, spinning to see who had opened the door. Derek did his best to paste a friendly smile on his face, then remembered that his friendly smile had been guaranteed to send his little sister into hysterical tears when she'd been a toddler and grimaced.

And then he smiled again, because… Apparently he wanted to confuse the fuck out of his pretty new teammate. 

Shrugging his bag off his shoulder, Derek strode confidently into the room, slinging the bag onto the obviously unclaimed bed before waving awkwardly at Stilinski. "Hey, I never caught your name at practice yesterday, but you must be Stilinski," he said, trying like hell to undo the damage of their first disastrous meeting.

Stilinski, who'd been spinning the desk chair in gape-jawed, wide-eyed surprise, just nodded, then shook his head, then nodded again. "Stilinski, yeah, but just call me Stiles, dude."

"Stiles." Derek stepped a little closer, eyes flickering down to sneak a peek at the beauty of Stiles' chest, then thrust his hand forward as he regained eye contact. "Nice to officially meet you. I'm Derek. We should have done the meet and greet yesterday, probably. I, uh, don't want to interrupt," he added, gesturing to the open computer where Stilinski's dad and — friend? brother? — were looking on silently. "I was just going to hit the shower and then turn in."

"Oh! Uh, yeah," Stilinski jumped to his feet, running his palm nervously along his pants leg before grasping Derek's hand with his pitching one. It was familiarly calloused — Derek had known dozens of pitchers throughout the years — but still sent shivers racing down Derek's spine as those long fingers wrapped around his hand and squeezed. "Yeah, that's fine. We were just about done here, anyway and…" Stilinski's eyes darted down over Derek's v-neck shirt and lingered on his legs. "Are you... are you wearing _jorts_?" Stiles asked, staring at Derek's knees in something like horror. 

Blinking at the non sequitur, Derek looked down, but couldn't find anything amiss with his clothes. "Yeah?"

"I… Okay. Okay, sorry, yeah! Nice to meet you, Derek." Stiles finally yanked his eyes back up, a half-crazed looking smile catching up the corners of his mouth. "Do you want me to order you something from room service while you shower or…?"

"Nah, that's okay," Derek said, loathe to draw Stiles' attention to the fact that they were still shaking hands, though it had slowed to something more like a gently bobbing hand-clasp. But he _did_ need to take a shower before he blew his _second_ impression too. "I grabbed some stuff off the setup downstairs before I came up. Happy hour tacos are not to be missed," he added with a grin. 

Stiles finally seemed to realize they'd been shaking hands too long and drew his own away with a little cough, his cheeks flushing. "I'll, ah, have to see about getting down there to get some then."

"Yeah, you should," Derek murmured as he watched the way the color spread in an uneven distribution over Stiles' cheeks, completely enraptured, before a low cough made them both startle and remember the men waiting on the computer. "So I'm just gonna… hit the shower, then," Derek added, cocking his thumb over his shoulder. 

Stiles nodded, already turning back to the screen as Derek quickly dropped his bag and began rooting through it for some shorts to sleep in. As he was disappearing into the bathroom — and just before the door closed — he heard Stilinski hiss, "That's Derek Hale!"

—

Reno was just the first stop on three series of away games that ended in Tacoma, Washington. And as usual, unless someone bitched, roommate assignments stayed the same from one town to another. Which was fine.

Just fine.

Derek was going to die of blue balls, but he welcomed death gladly considering he got to wake up every morning to the sight of Stiles stepping out of the bathroom of whatever hotel they'd ended up at for the night, steam curling around him, too-tiny, plain white hotel towel barely covering him as it parted along his thigh, water droplets running from his water-darkened hair to chase themselves down his chest and shoulders and back, long, elegant feet leaving wet footprints on the carpet.

Derek was going to _die_ , but what a way to go.

And it wasn't like he had the luxury of waiting until Stiles left to rub one out in the privacy of the hotel room, because Derek was a person who valued sleeping until the last possible second and, as such, was always rushing to dress at the same time as Stiles to make it downstairs in time for the team breakfast every morning.

The amount of clothing-optional bumping against each other they did in their tired fumbling every morning did _not_ help matters at all.

But the routine did help in other areas. After that second meeting in their hotel room, Stiles quickly warmed to Derek, filling in silences that might have grown awkward with easy chatter about anything from random trivia to the stats on the next days' batters. He didn't seem to mind the times that Derek was too socially exhausted to contribute more than grunts to the conversation, and was one of the few people of Derek's acquaintance who actually _appreciated_ the subtle nuances of Derek's admittedly dry wit.

Derek had initially hoped that proximity to the source would curb Stiles' appeal, but instead, knowing the way his eyes would narrow mischievously before laughing at poorly phrased words — seriously, the guy might be 22, but he had the humor of a twelve year old — or how he'd bite the corner of his bottom lip and scratch at the back of his head when nervous… Those things all made him even _more_ appealing to Derek.

It all came to a head one night after a heartbreaking loss their last night in Tacoma. Derek didn't make it back to the locker rooms in time to see if Stiles was okay, so he dropped his gear as fast as possible — which took achingly long since it _was_ the last night and everything needed to be cleaned and packed away for the trip back to Nevada. Instead of waiting for the shuttle that most of the players normally took, he hailed a cab and made it back to their hotel just slightly before midnight.

The room was dark as he entered, but he knew somehow that Stiles was still awake. And sure enough, as he crept into the area where the beds were, he caught the glint of light off Stiles' wide eyes. 

"Hey," he murmured softly, easing down onto the bed — _Stiles'_ bed — and gently laying a hand on Stiles' hip. Stiles was on his side, arms tucked in toward his chest, body curled inward. He looked sad and miserable and _defeated_ and none of that set right with Derek. "How're you doing?"

Stiles snorted and tried to roll away, but Derek held him still. After a long, tense moment, Stiles stopped trying to hide and muttered, "I lost us the damn game. _That's_ how I'm doing."

"We were losing long before you took the mound tonight and you know it. The position the coaches put you in… that wasn't fair. I know it, they know it, and _you_ should know it too. Remember, sometimes it's not even about trying to win with these guys. Sometimes it's about mitigating damage. Sometimes it's about seeing how _you_ handle that kind of pressure."

Stiles' eyes shot to his in the gloom, the corners of them twitching in an expression that Derek had already started to learn to read as anxiety. 

"You handled it brilliantly," he said, giving the hip under his palm a firm squeeze. 

"I didn't… I just… _how_?" Stiles asked, beseeching, his voice breaking a tiny bit on the end.

"I want you to remember tonight's game exactly how it was, because I think you're building it up in ways that aren't accurate. Greenburg was having a decent game, right? First three innings, he only allowed two runners to get on base. But in the fourth, he started getting tired. It happens." 

Stiles' face twisted up, but he didn't dispute that.

"By the fifth, the coaches knew he was done. He argued his case to play it out and they let him. Now," Derek said softly, injecting his tone with a challenging lilt. "Why do you think they'd let him win that argument?"

"They wanted to see how he'd react?"

"Probably, but also? He needs to learn to listen to us. To his catcher, to the coaches, to the _game_. _His_ ego loaded up those bases, not yours. He was the one who admitted defeat with a full count in the seventh inning."

"And I was the one who threw a fastball right down the center for Rodriguez to smash into the stands. _Four runs._ " Stiles groaned and raised his hands to his face, scrubbing at it. "A fucking grand slam, and I served it up on a platter like a Denny's waitress."

"Yep. And then you shut down the next three batters. And the next three. And the next. _You_ only allowed one hit." When Stiles started to scoff and roll his eyes, Derek made a sharp noise that cut him off, startling him into looking up at Derek with his eyes wide. "The coaches saw _that_. They dealt you a shit sandwich and watched you handle it with dignity, Stiles. And that's what they'll tell the people who matter. 'This kid's got a nerve of steel,' they'll say. 'He can handle the stress. No whining or bitching about what he might walk into.'"

"Do you really think so?" Stiles whispered, gnawing on his lower lip.

"I know so. Heard Finstock say that _exact_ thing on the phone in the dugout." Derek laughed out loud when Stiles jack-knifed up in the bed, squawking and smacking Derek in the chest.

"You asshole! Why didn't you tell me that the minute you walked in?! You let me _languish_ here, thinking I was going to get knocked down to like… coaching _tee ball_ or something and—" Stiles lunged forward, squeezing Derek in a hard, enveloping hug. 

Derek froze at the gesture, which didn't go unnoticed by Stiles, who also stiffened up against him, drawing in a breath for what would probably be an apology. But before any words could shatter the moment, Derek raised his hands and pressed them into Stiles' back, unable to stop himself from running them slowly up and down the warm, bare skin as he hooked his chin over Stiles' shoulder. "You're a good pitcher, one of the best I've ever seen," he said, trying to move past the awkward moment. "But you're playing at a higher level than you're used to. And so is everyone else. It's only going to get harder from here. _How you handle it_ is what makes the difference between a ringing phone and a pink slip."

A small shudder went through Stiles, so tiny that Derek only felt it because they were pressed so close. The muscles under his hands shifted as Stiles turned his head, burrowing his face against Derek's neck. "Not to, umm, ruin the moment," he whispered, the words nearly inaudible, "but… either things are about to get really awkward or really awesome, and it's _really hard_ to tell which."

Derek drew back enough to look in Stiles' face — not his _eyes_ , because Stiles was blushing and avoiding all eye contact — but not far enough to lose the skin on skin contact that was so intensely satisfying to Derek on a level a lot deeper than he was willing to examine. "What do you mean?"

"I, umm, just… this," Stiles fluttered one hand between them, the other not letting go of its grip on Derek's shoulder. "It's making me happy in the, ahhh, pants-al region. Which, I kinda thought you might move or something and realize, so, I'm sorry. It's awkward, right?" He dropped his hands to his lap then, a pained look crossing his face even as he bunched up the blankets. "Shit. Sorry, sorry, so—"

Derek caught the tail end of the last blurted apology with his lips, and the only thing awkward about it was the way he had to twist himself up to achieve that goal. The muscles under Derek's hands — that had been tensing up in preparation to flee, no doubt — spasmed momentarily before softening as Stiles relaxed into the soft, gentle press of lips. Derek didn't deepen it, didn't press for more with Stiles in an already emotional state, but he also didn't want to end up with any misunderstandings. 

When he pulled away, Derek didn't go far. "Hey, I've been meaning to ask. Would you like to go out on a date some time?"

"As long as you promise not to take me to Denny's."

Derek frowned for a moment before understanding dawned and he started laughing, drawing Stiles tight into another, slightly shakier, hug. "I pinky swear."

—

Derek pressed the phone against his ear, tugging his cap off to wipe at the place the sweaty band had been itching his forehead. He nearly forgot himself and tossed it on the GM's glossy desk before gripping it tight between his fingers to prevent himself from making such a glaring _faux pas_ , a grin fighting to break free as he caught the orange NY emblazoned on the deep blue material. 

Though he'd only been called up to the Mets a few months months prior, Derek was already a fan favorite — which he attributed to the lack of celebrity on the team itself and Stiles attributed to the way his ass and thighs filled out his jeans — and that pull had given him the opportunity to ask for a small favor if the time ever came.

That time was now. The team needed a solid closer and with Fredericks tearing his rotator cuff in the last series, the team had been—

"Vegas 51s, Finstock speaking. _Hey, you assholes, settle down! I'm on the damn phone!_ "

Derek chuckled softly to himself. "Hey, Coach Finstock. This is Derek Hale. Is Stiles still around?"

"What? Hale? Shit, son, you're using the GM's office to place a booty call? You got some big brass balls on you, kid! Both of 'em." 

Derek's mouth dropped open and he glanced in horror at Mr. Alderson before clearing his throat and shaking his head. "No, I… that's not…"

"Yeah, yeah, I get it. Plausible deniability. All hush hush and whatnot. No problem, kid, I'm getting your boy toy, hang on."

Derek dropped his chin to his chest, breathing deeply through the overwhelming mortification sweeping through him. He could only hope this damn call wasn't being recorded for posterity.

"Hello, what? Derek? Are you okay? Finstock said—"

" _Stiles._ " Derek's grin grew into a smile so wide it made his cheeks hurt, but he tried his hardest to keep his voice level as he said, "I need you to sit down."

"Oh shit. You're hurt. You're being traded. You're breaking up with me. You're _pregnant._ "

Derek rolled his eyes at his boyfriend's ridiculousness before he cut him off again. "And now I need you to listen to me. Are you listening?"

"I'm... yeah. I'm listening. Derek, what's going _on_?"

Biting his lips against a whoop of laughter as giddy happiness threatened to overwhelm him, Derek nodded at Mr. Alderson, who hit the speaker button and said, "Mr. Stilinski? This is Sandy Alderson of the New York Mets baseball club. I'd like to talk to you about a vacancy in our pitching lineup..."

**Author's Note:**

> Look at that! I didn't make a single innuendo about pitching and catching (because they like to switch hit, if you know what I mean, *wink wink nudge nudge*). Personal growth, bb! 
> 
> You can catch me on [tumblr](http://eeyore9990.tumblr.com).


End file.
